


Sweetening

by sutlers



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Incest, Multi, Threesome, sweetcharity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-13
Updated: 2008-04-13
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sutlers/pseuds/sutlers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tragicamente](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tragicamente).



Ed, by Al's decree, is no longer allowed to drink coffee, and that is why there is so much tea in the apartment. Ed confides this to Roy at Roy's house; Roy doesn't know why he's there. Because, Ed says, there is too much caffeine at once, and he wasn't maximizing the potential anyway. He holds his cup out for a splash of the rum Roy has just put in his own; Roy raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. It is bitterly cold outside, and maybe there is cause for celebration.

Ed is still chattering when they move to the couch, taking the pot and the bottle with them. A few cups in and Roy has stopped listening, eyes listing towards the dip in Ed's clavicle, framed by a white dress shirt that, Roy realizes, has been buttoned unevenly.

Also, Ed says suddenly, cup clattering on his plate, it's better for pulling all-nighters. Tea. More efficient. Don't tell Al.

Don't tell Al what? Roy asks absently. Ed's kiss is soft and startling.

 

***

Roy always knows when Al has made the tea; it tastes like ozone, like the sharp tang of an alchemical reaction, but otherwise steeped to perfection. He can imagine the way Al's hands come together, Al's fingers gliding over the pitted clay of the teapot, the same way they did in over everything the first few weeks after Al got his body back, gentle, reverent. It surprised no one that the thing he touched most was his brother, quiet wonder lighting up Al's eyes when Ed would turn his cheek into Al's palm and grin.

Ed's tea tastes of nothing but tea; he prefers the aging stove with its faulty gas burners and always, always boils the water much too hot, burning the leaves. In those moments Roy believes Ed takes after his mother, which is absurd; Roy has never met their mother, not really, has no way of knowing where that impatient weight-shift comes from, the delicate way Ed tucks his hair behind his ear. He finds his fingers following Ed's over Ed's cheekbone and finds himself thinking of Al when Ed nudges his hand, eyelids half-closed and pupils shot. The tea Ed makes leaves a bitter aftertaste in Roy's mouth.

 

***

For a while, there is Winry. Winry and Al, Winry visiting in Ed and Al's apartment, Winry trailing the scent of gardenia layered over machine oil. She stands nearly as tall as Al, her hair the color of winter wheat falling over her shoulder. Al has hair like sun-kissed barley and they look beautiful together, young, they _fit_—his hand skims over her bare hip but his eyes track his brother.

It takes Roy a long time to understand, perhaps as long as it takes Al. The day before Winry leaves Roy sees her and Al standing in the alley together, the thin strip of alley between buildings. When Winry slides her hand around the back of Al's neck and pulls his head down, Roy thinks she is going to kiss him, but all she does is press their foreheads together and mouth something Roy can't make out. Al stiffens but she is the one who pulls away, gaze flickering over Roy as she walks past, eyes hardening at the sight of him.

Sorry, Al says to Roy, hands spread, palms up. They look at each other until the door upstairs slams and Ed comes clattering down, bright and loud; Roy has to shade his eyes to see him, backlit, a reflection of the sun.

 

***

He catches them kissing in the late spring, one or two months later, when the air is just cool enough and heavy with the promise of rain. He doesn't mean to, honestly, but Ed did give him the key. They're both on the porch, legs dangling over the side, talking about something Roy can't hear through the clear glass of the door; Al ducks his head and brushes his nose against his brother's. He doesn't bother to press their mouths together fully, just open and lewd, tongues sliding together.

Roy backs out of the apartment quietly, pulse thundering in his ears. He spends the next few nights thinking about the thin skin on the insides of Al's wrists and the uncanny perceptiveness in Al's eyes.

 

***

Spring shifts into summer and all of a sudden Roy's allergies erupt in a way they haven't in years; he tells the office he's contracted the plague and takes the week off, alchemically sealing every opening in his house and setting up an air filter in his bedroom to keep himself from suffocating. It doesn't work as well as he would have hoped. He's half-delirious when he hears the voice: Ed's, saying something about how oh my god it smells like death, and then the sound of a window opening. There's a warm pressure against his forehead and when he opens his eyes he sees that it's Al, features distorted strangely by proximity, eyes wide and calm.

We brought you some tea, Al says, face crinkling up into a smile. I don't think you have the plague.

Allergies, Roy croaks. And then because Al is there, he tilts his face up that last half-inch and presses their lips together.

I killed all of his neighbor's freak foreign flowers and made it look like a virus, Ed announces, walking in with a tray balanced carefully on his hands. He sets it down on the dresser and looks from Roy to Al and back again, a nervous twist to his mouth. Look, Mustang—

I get it, Roy mumbles, tugging Ed down onto the bed. It's fine. They both tuck in against his sides and wait for the tea to cool.


End file.
